


Drink and Consequences

by fivefootnothing



Category: All Creatures Great and Small - James Herriot
Genre: Gen, Hangover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 11:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fivefootnothing/pseuds/fivefootnothing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A merry evening at the Drovers Arms leads to a bizarre morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drink and Consequences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flakingnapstich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flakingnapstich/gifts).



“Jim. Jim. Jim.”

The sound of my name being called managed to drag me into consciousness. Whatever depths my mind lingered to after a night of too-much drink, I couldn’t recall. In fact, I couldn’t recall much of anything from the previous night. I cracked my eyes open carefully, but even the thinnest sliver of daylight made my head pound.

“Triss…” I started.

“Don’t move,” Tristan said insistently. 

I opened my eyes in earnest then, not quite comprehending. “Why?”

“Because if you do, you’ll frighten the chickens.”

“I don’t…”

“Keep still!” Tristan hissed, and I finally noticed what he was concerned about.

We were crammed in a chicken coop. As my vision began to adjust to the surroundings, I saw that Tristan was nearly upside-down, his body rammed up against a corner of the tiny shed and his limbs bent in near-impossible directions.

No. 

He wasn’t upside-down. 

I was.

“Jim, try not to panic.”

“Try not to—I’m sitting in chicken shit!”

“And I’ve a hen’s bum dangerously close to my face.”

“You’re being awfully calm about this.”

“Jim, you may be surprised to learn that I’ve spent many a drunken night in a chicken coop.”

“Actually I’m not surprised to learn that. At all.”

A rustling noise drew my attention to the door of the coop. A handsome rooster poked his head in, bright eyes intently upon us, the very definition of cock-sure. A Sussex, by the look of it, a breed well-known for its docile behavior and ease of care.

We stared at each other, each sizing the other up like two prize-fighters in the ring. And like those prize-fighters, one of them had to draw first blood. I felt his sharp beak dig right through my thick woolen sock and against all my attempts at civility, I let out a great yelp of surprise and pain. 

Tristan let out a terrible groan. “James, I told you not to panic! Now you’ve upset the hens!”

The ruckus did indeed send the chickens into a horrible state. One insistent buff-coloured hen somehow got it in her head that Tristan’s fair hair hid something delectable, and she started to forage through those tawny strands. Tristan let out a yelp even less civil than mine.

“Clear out, Jim! Clear out!” he called, and he gestured towards the opening.

When I looked at the entrance to the coop, I had a momentary lapse of confusion. How did we ever cram ourselves through that slot in the first place? But the limitations of physics were no match for our shared panic, and we eventually crawled our way out. Both Tristan and I were struggling with minds still muddled from drink, and he began to pick the odd feather out of his hair.

“What’ve we got ‘ere?” boomed a deep voice.

I steadied my gaze long enough on the vague shape to understand that though we freed ourselves from the coop, we were still in the thick of trouble. The booming voice belonged to Walter Dowd. The Dowds had, within a two generations of farming in the Dales, gained a certain reputation for keeping to themselves, and for holding any non-Dowd type person in immediate disdain. Siegfried dreaded taking calls out to the Dowd farm, for it certainly meant that the animal was too far gone for a vet to be of any help.

Dowd was nearing fifty, with great, pink jowls pulled perpetually downwards like a bulldog’s. I steeled myself against the expected torrent of abuse we were about to suffer, particularly since I saw that Dowd was brandishing a pitchfork like some sort of medieval weapon. 

“Young Mr. Tristan, innit?” Dowd drawled, angling his pitchfork at Tristan.

Tristan responded with a meek noise which sounded a bit like a yes.

“And Mr. ‘Erriot.” Dowd nodded at me, and I’m sorry to say that I was rather heartened by the fact that he kept the pitchfork squarely on Tristan. “Summat wrong wi’ my ‘ens?”

“Er…?” I started.

“Inspectin’ my coop wi’ out me knowin’. Summat ah should know ‘bout?” 

“No!” I exclaimed. “I mean, yes, we’re conducting a surprise inspection of local chicken coops. There’s some news about…about an epidemic…of…of…”

“Bumblefoot,” added Tristan, in a grave voice.

“Eh?” Dowd said.

“Bumblefoot,” Tristan repeated. “Infection of the bottom of the feet, common in poultry. We’ve been instructed to examine the local poultry population for any instances of it, but your hens appear to be fine.”

“Ah see.” Dowd seemed to be taking our story at face value, much to my relief. “Well, go on, then. Inspect tha rest o’ tha coops!”

I crumpled inside. There were twenty-four other coops on the Dowd farm, all scattered throughout their land, and two vets would need the rest of the day to get through them all. With both Tristan and I harbouring the most dreadful of hangovers, I feared our inspections would be torturous on our poor heads. 

“Walt! Walt!” Another voice came calling in the distance. It was young Danny Stanton, one of the Dowds’ farmhands. Danny was twenty and gangly, with a pinched face sporting a pair of owlish specs. “Couple a’ fenceposts got knocked down during the night. No idea how that ‘appened.”

“Need ta fix them posts ‘afore foxes get in.” Dowd said. He turned to us menacingly, his hands still curled around the handle of his pitchfork. Carry on,” he said finally, and he hurried off with Danny. 

As soon as the two were out of sight, Tristan grabbed my arm. “Let’s go, Jim. Now, while they’re distracted!”

In the choice between pretending to inspect chicken feet for bumblefoot and the possibility of heading back to Skeldale House and to my bed, I leaned towards going home.

We ran towards the entrance to the farm, all the while keeping an eye out for Dowd or his farmhands. However, after reaching the gate, my car was nowhere to be found. 

“I’ve half a mind to go back to those chickens,” I said, thinking of the long walk back into Darrowby from here.

“Don’t be an idiot, Jim,” said Tristan. “Once we set foot back on that farm, Dowd will have it in for us. We’d best head out and not look back.”

I dreaded agreeing with Tristan, but what other choice did we have? We’d trudged down the road for a couple of miles before I spotted a familiar silhouette parked at the side of the road. “Oh what a sight for sore eyes!” I said excitedly.

Tristan made for the car in great haste, but then his face paled.

“What’s wrong, Triss?” I said. “Open the door and let’s get going.”

Tristan backed away from the car, as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Tristan, stop messing about! All you have to do is grab the handle and…”

A furry face appeared at the driver window, all malice and sharp teeth. 

“…Boris?” I asked, fearful. Whenever I had the misfortune of being called out to treat Boris, Mrs. Bond (the person closest to being considered Boris’s owner) obliged me by offering a pair of gauntlets to protect my arms from his claws. I still think that he was part puma.

“Afraid so,” said Tristan. “When the bloody hell did we pick him up? I think I would’ve remembered. And we’d both have been eviscerated, but I haven’t a scratch on me.”

Tristan was right; neither of us bore the tell-tale evidence of a Boris encounter.

“I’m not riding in the same car as that…that savage beast,” Tristan said.

“Oh don’t be such a baby! It’s either we take the car or we walk back into town, and we’ll have wasted a day doing that!”

“I prefer all my blood in me, thanks,” Tristan said fervently. “We’re being tested, Jim. Like Job. Have a look at my wrist. Is that a boil?”

“Look, somehow we managed to get the cat in the car while we were both drunk. I don’t see why we can’t do the same thing sober.”

“ _In vino veritas_. There’s truth in wine.”

“Ancient Roman sayings aren’t going to help us. Think! We can’t simply leave the car here. Siegfried will murder me!”

“And me as well, being the accessory,” Tristan said. “Right. In matters of monstrous felines, we’ve got to stick together. We could sedate him?”

“All the drugs are in my case, in the rear seat.”

Boris suddenly rushed the window, and I feared that he’d somehow smash straight through the glass. Suturing up lacerations was the last thing that I’d wanted to do this day. 

“The answer’s dead simple! What happens when I drink?”

“Regret?” I was in no mood for more riddles.

Tristan flourished his arms theatrically. “The Mad Conductor makes his appearance.”

“I don’t think your questionable German accent will—“

“Not zhe accent!” Tristan said. “Zhe music!” And then Tristan fell into humming “In the Hall of the Mountain King”.

I glanced into the car, and Boris stopped scratching at the seats. Instead, he was frozen, intently listening to the off-key rendition of Peer Gynt.

“By Jove, it’s working,” I said in disbelief. “Keep singing.”

Tristan finished one tune and slipped straight into another, and by the time I joined in on the chorus of “Any Old Iron”, Boris was tame enough for me to open the driver door without him doing much else but blink. Boris seemed to adore music hall numbers, and when we hit upon “I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am”, the cat began to purr. We drove straight back to Mrs. Bond’s, and she was ever grateful to find out that we’d found her lost cat, even as she was confused as to why we both were singing pub songs at the top of our lungs. And I garnered a useful piece of arsenal in the battle of uncooperative cats.

“Better than enticing them with a call of ‘puss-puss-puss’, eh Jim?” said Tristan.

I couldn’t agree more. After delivering Boris, we were both keen on returning to Skeldale, barring any more incidents. We couldn’t have been more than a mile away from home when Tristan let out a yelp about as loud as the one back at Dowd farm. 

“What is it now?” I asked.

“Stop the car. Stop the bloody car!” Tristan exclaimed. 

We skidded to a halt, and Tristan answered my questioning stare by pointing out the window.

There, laying on the ground in front of the butchers, was Siegfried.

“We’ve got to help him!” I exclaimed as we clambered out of the car.

“Oh I wish I had a camera to immortalise this moment,” Tristan sighed, urging his barely conscious brother into the back seat.

“Triss, he’s not alone.” A basket sat on the curb, and when I peeked inside, two shiny-black eyes stared back. Recalling the episodes with the rooster and with Boris with chagrin, I was wary of taking a closer look. But with Siegfried in such rough sorts, I steeled up the remnants of my courage and opened the basket flap. To my immense relief, none other than Tricki Woo stared back at me. “What in the world are you doing here?” I took the basket and placed it right in Tristan’s lap. The Pomeranian appeared in excellent health and spirits, but I couldn’t say the same for poor Siegfried. 

He bellowed out “My boy!” in Tristan’s general direction. After Siegfried spoke, a definite waft of whisky emerged past his lips. “My dear brother…”

“Look at this, Jim. His coat pocket’s been torn.” Tristan said. “And that's a black eye. It looks like Siegfried’s had a worse night than we did.”

“My. Dear. Brother.” Siegfried repeated.

“Er, yes, Siegfried,” Tristan said. “Not to worry. We’re nearly home.”

Siegfried produced a folded scrap of paper and brandished it in front of Tristan’s face. “Take this letter. Deliver it to Mrs. Pumphrey straight…away…” 

“Out like a light,” Tristan sighed. “Typical. I spent the entire day worried to death about Siegfried’s having it in for me, and just look at him! He’ll be lucky if he remembers us bringing him home.”

“Well, this might actually work out in our favour,” I said. “If Siegfried’s focused on his actions from last night, he might not even think to ask about our whereabouts.”

The welcoming bellow of happy dogs greeted us when we finally arrived home, and somehow we managed to drag Siegfried into his bedroom without too much fuss from him. As for the letter, Tristan took a peek at it, chortled, and then offered it to me. It was in Siegfried’s familiar scrawl, though somewhat even more scrawl-like given Siegfried’s inebriated state when he wrote it. 

The letter’s contents were as follows:

> My Dear Mrs. Pumphrey:  
>  I sincerely regret the events which transpired yesterday. The plums were, of course, delicious, and Tricki Woo was right in recommending them to me. What I am most sorry for, however, is the goat. I hadn’t realised that it would defecate so much and so often. Whatever the costs of cleaning the rug, please remit them to me in care of Skeldale House. I have also taken Mr. Woo into my care for further examination, for I will be better equipped to gauge the extent of his mental trauma and his physical well-being back at the surgery.  
>  Yours etc.  
>  Siegfried Farnon

We never gave Mrs. Pumphrey the letter, but when we returned Tricki Woo to her, I of course apologised on Siegfried’s behalf. Mrs. Pumphrey waved off any discussion of payment, but she did say that Tricki was upset that the goat had shat upon his favourite rug. I instead said that Siegfried’s services were to be provided free of charge for the next few months, and we all agreed that it was for the best. 

When recalling the incident which began at Dowd farm, Siegfried’s sorry state and his letter were never brought up. In fact, Tristan kept that letter for many years, “just in case”.

Funnily enough, he never found any good use for it.


End file.
